Kakababu has reached Balaram’s crossing,” she announced, matter-of-factly, as I entered home after running an errand. “He will be here soon.”



For a moment I was at a loss. Who is this person my 77-year-old mother was expecting at this time of the day? It was past noon and everything seemed as usual. The pressure cooker hissing in the kitchen, a clang here, a thud there. The furry member letting out gentle snores from under the sofa, opening his beady eyes once in a while to see his favourite humans sauntering about. There was no sign of an imminent visit from an unknown someone.

And then it dawned. Kakababu was no new entity, only the term of address was. This was another one of the ingenuities of a septuagenarian matriarch. By the way, Balaram’s is the name of the sweet shop about 10 minutes away from our house. The rest ought to be left to the imagination.



Kakababu is a constant in our house, and a most temperamental one, as we have learnt over the years. His presence is of utmost importance. But by some curious theory, it is a presence that becomes more pronounced by absence. Or rather, when he is expected but fails to turn up.



For those who are yet to figure it out, Kakababu relates to a subject most would deem avoidable, at least for these columns. But that hardly ensures it isn’t talked about, even at the dining table. One has credible information that it is among the most discussed subjects in many homes.



Make no mistake, there are other topics too that are chewed on. Meal times are a veritable lesson in nutrition, with the mother having gorged on every related video on YouTube. Which vegetables are rich in fibre, which ones up the haemoglobin content but are otherwise a hindrance. Bananas are a must, once in the morning and once in the evening. But kancha kola or raw plantain is a sworn enemy. Let one bit appear in her portion of shukto and the narrative of absence springs alive. By extension, the once-loved mochar ghonto — a plantain flower dish — has fallen out of favour. As has thor or banana stem. Conversely, there’s hardly a leafy vegetable that isn’t consumed in our house — shushni, paat, kochu — you name it, we eat it.



Despite it all, many a time, it’s past noon and he still hasn’t turned up. Or worse, he did show up but it was a most disappointing visit. There is an air of gloom, restlessness and puzzlement.

“You are my Piku,” she once remarked, when I had expressed irritation. And so it goes, much like in the film. Hot milk, tick. Exercise, tick. Generous helping of shaak the day before, tick. It’s not easy to solve but with some luck, one may be able to prise out an explanation. And it is then revealed that Kakababu had appeared, unannounced, the evening before. But, of course, not every absence can be accounted for.

Talking about puzzles, Ma often talks about her best friend, especially while solving the daily crossword. Earlier, whenever she couldn’t crack a clue, she found the answer over a phone call with her. The rich friendship of 50 years meant everything was shared — their middle-aged children’s lives, conflicting opinions on governments in power, the vicissitudes of life and, of course, that thing that carried the most import.

That was till a year ago. Today, every fond remembrance is laced by intrigue — “I have no clue how she could manage without it for three days at a stretch.”



A friend had once told us how he had chanced upon his uncle’s notebook a few months after the latter passed away. On one page was written in bold letters — “Four times today.” I could almost see the triumph written on his face, the friend recalled, fondly.



It is a complex thing, this relationship. Remember what Piku’s father Bhaskor had said? “Insaan ka emotion uska motion ke saath juda hua hai.”